


The Twelfth Riddle

by silverlake7169



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guns, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Shock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 05:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlake7169/pseuds/silverlake7169
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angry with Sherlock after an argument, John goes away overnight. While he's gone, Moran makes a horrific move against Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The character death isn't Sherlock or John. I would NEVER.

He can’t even remember what the fight was about.

He remembers how it ended – him spitting the words _you heartless shit_ at Sherlock like venom, Sherlock gazing inscrutably back at him, the satisfyingly dense slam of the door behind him.

He does remember what it was about, of course, if he’s honest with himself and stops pacing the length of his tiny hotel room for long enough to really think. 

The victim had been hospitalized with end-stage liver disease. A chronic alcoholic, he’d been in and out of the ward with complications resulting from cirrhosis for years and years, had tried repeatedly to get sober without success. _Textbook_ , Sherlock had said dismissively, and even that had prickled at John.

His doctors were only able to administer the mildest of painkillers, because anything else would tank his already failing liver. As a result, he was dying in agony.

His sister had taken it upon herself to administer the strong stuff herself, in a lethal dose. She’d arrived in their living room seemingly not to seek answers so much as to confess, and to establish whether anything could be proved against her. 

Sherlock had been blunt and brutish as ever with her, interrupting her at the very worst possible moments, and John should be used to it but this is different, this is too close. 

“It never ceases to amaze,” Sherlock had remarked, afterwards. “The human capacity for self-delusion. She knew for years he was killing himself, acted only when she had the least appealing set of options remaining. Bizarre.”

He’d said it absently, his attention on his laptop, the case already semi-forgotten and it struck John, again, just how little everything meant to him.

“You really don’t have a fucking clue, do you?” John had said, words half-broken by a humourless chuckle. 

He hadn’t mentioned Harry by name, but God knows Sherlock has never needed any help before with figuring him out. It shouldn’t come as a surprise any longer, Sherlock’s capacity for thoughtless brutality, but he knows John and he knows the terror he has suffered – her cycles of newfound resolve and inevitable decline, her slurred voicemails, her poorly disguised edema – and he hadn’t cared enough to keep his mouth shut. 

He’d gone straight to Paddington and caught a train to Bristol, with the half-baked intention of going to see Harry, but realised too late that he’d left his phone at Baker Street. He doesn’t even have her most recent address. 

_Good_ , he had thought viciously as he slammed through the platform barriers, imagining his phone buzzing uselessly on the living room table as Sherlock texted him. Let his bloody demands fall on deaf ears for once. 

So here he is, waking up at a Travelodge. In Bristol. For absolutely no conceivable reason besides Sherlock being a knob and his own remarkable ability to continue being surprised by his knobbishness. 

In the cold light of morning, though, his anger’s beginning to recede. For all that Sherlock could be intentionally cruel, in this instance he’d been doing nothing of the sort. It was pure ignorance, a borderline autistic moment of insensitivity that was nothing out of the ordinary, and with some fourteen hours now between himself and the argument John can’t avoid the feeling that he’d overreacted.

Nor the feeling that it’s ridiculous to be spending money on a hotel room in the hometown he has no desire to revisit. The large digital clock on the bedside table is mocking him, counting down every minute he’s wasting on this stupid jaunt during which Sherlock probably won’t even notice he’s gone.

At 9:08, he makes a cup of tea. 

At 9:34 he takes the Bible out, has a flick through, thinks better of it.

At 10:17, he goes for a walk, taking in deep gulps of the morning air, trying to clear his mind.

He manages to while away most of the day walking the streets with no specific destination in mind, stewing, his anger feeling less and less rooted by the second. Nonetheless, he is very, very determined not to go home before at least 24 hours have gone by, as though this arbitrary measure of time will be the thing that really shakes Sherlock to his core. 

Finally, after he’s exhausted all of the city’s major parks and drunk about as many solo cups of coffee as he can stand, he admits defeat and boards a train back to London.

***

The flat is dark when he finally gets back. He thinks of calling for Sherlock, but stops himself, overwhelmed by the faintly immature feeling that he isn’t the one who should have to make the first move, though God knows it’ll end up being him anyway.

As he’s reaching for his phone, it leaps into action, and as he goes to answer he notices that his missed calls are in double figures.

“Hello?”

“Where the hell have you been?”

Lestrade.

“I’ve, err—I was away overnight, forgot to take my phone. Why?”

There’s a pause, Lestrade taking what sounds like a deep breath, and cold settles abruptly into John’s stomach.

“Sherlock?” he asks, voice suddenly uneven.

“He’s okay. There was a situation, early this morning. Ten hostages, a gunman we’re pretty positive was working for Moriarty. He was feeding Sherlock riddles and letting the hostages go if he solved them in time. Sherlock was in there too. He saved eleven of them, but the last one was killed.”

“And?”

“It was Mycroft.”

“What was?”

“The last hostage was Mycroft.”


	2. Chapter 2

The cab ride from Baker Street to Scotland Yard has never taken so long.

“He’s not here,” Lestrade says, almost before John’s through the door. 

“What?”

“He left, a few hours ago. Didn’t say where he was going, wouldn’t stay, and once he’d given his statement there wasn’t a lot I could do to keep him here.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” John almost snarls, the past 24 hours’ shit-storm of impotent anger snowballing into something that clouds his vision red.

“Because,” Lestrade replies, voice pointedly steady, “I knew if I told you he’d gone, you’d go haring off trying to find him and I’d never get hold of either one of you. I thought it was better for you to hear everything we know first.”

He looks ragged, chewed-up, like a man who’s been on his feet holding crumbling things together for too many hours on end.

“Right. Fair enough.”

“Will you sit down?” Lestrade asks patiently, and John sits. 

“Mycroft is dead?” he asks quietly, a hollow ache settling in his chest. This, in itself, feels impossible. Mycroft Holmes has always, ever since that first obscenely dramatic meeting, seemed less like a man to John than an immoveable fact. 

Lestrade nods heavily.

“Tell me.”

“This gunman, Sebastian Moran – we think he’s an associate of Moriarty’s, holding a grudge. Sherlock seemed to know of him.”

John nods. The name had come up between them, Sherlock trying to sound unconcerned because everything surrounding Reichenbach was still raw, even now Sherlock has been home for more than a year. Moran had been mentioned in several of the documents Mycroft had dug up from Moriarty’s records, a former army sniper whose relationship to Moriarty was unclear.

“He lured Sherlock to a warehouse in Hackney, promising the final game. The one Moriarty left behind for him.”

And Sherlock went. Of course he did.

“Sounds promising,” John mutters. 

“When he arrived – this is all from Sherlock’s testimony, we haven’t been able to interview the others yet – there were 12 hostages, all bound and gagged, lined up against the wall. Like they’re waiting for a firing squad. And Moran’s there with a shotgun.”

“Who were they?”

“Strangers, as far as we can tell. Sherlock said he didn’t recognise any of them, and there was no apparent pattern to the selection. Some male, some female, a couple elderly, a couple were kids.”

John swallows.

“Moran gives Sherlock a series of riddles, one for each hostage, and sixty seconds to solve each one. If he didn’t get the answer in time, the hostage died. And he solved them, of course, he solved every one of them. And then Moran got to Mycroft, he was the last one in line – he had a hood over his head, at first, so Sherlock didn’t know it was him until they got to his riddle.”

“How the hell did he even get Mycroft?” John asks. “He’s… I mean, having any kind of conversation with the man is an MI6-level security operation. Did Mycroft go willingly?”

“We don’t know. Our best guess is that somebody in Mycroft’s inner circle, maybe somebody in the cabinet, is working for Moran. We’re narrowing down a list.”

“Okay.”

“He gets to Mycroft. Moran gives him the riddle, and Sherlock solves it. And Moran applauds, and smiles for the first time, seems genuinely really thrilled. And then he shoots Mycroft dead, three bullets, right in front of him.”

“Oh, Jesus,” John murmurs, feeling suddenly sick. “Fuck.”

He takes a second, grinding the heels of his hands into his eyes, absorbing. Lestrade is silent beside him.

“So…what was the point?” he asks weakly. “Just a power play? The whole thing was just a set-up, he was always going to kill Mycroft.”

“That’s how it looks. I think this was Moran’s way of showing Sherlock that he’s powerless. All that intellect, all the games he used to play with Moriarty… Moran’s not playing by those rules.”

There’s something about the scenario that is cruel in a way John can barely even comprehend. Sherlock’s mind is everything to him, his ability to reason his way out of a situation with logic, with patterns, with deduction. If this is Moran’s vengeance served cold, he knew exactly how to attack.

He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“How did he seem?”

“Quiet. He gave us a full statement without batting an eyelid, didn’t say a word before or afterwards. He was here for a few hours, just sitting, not protesting, not arguing. But then he took off suddenly, like he had to be somewhere. I assumed he’d gone back to Baker Street.”

John shakes his head.

“Is the crime scene clear?”

“Yeah, it’s still cordoned off but there’s nothing going on there until morning. Forensics have been in already.”

“Can you give me the address?”

“Sure. You think he’s gone back?” Lestrade pauses, then nods. “Yeah, no, that actually makes a hell of a lot of sense. He’d have overheard Anderson saying that forensics were finished for the day.”

“Are you coming?”

Lestrade gives him a wan grimace that could almost have been a smile, on another day.

“I don’t think it’s me he needs to see.”

A thrill of guilt goes through John, then. Jesus, how was he pissing away the day in Bristol while this was happening? While Sherlock was phoning him again and again, before, maybe during. Maybe afterwards. 

He can’t get out of the station fast enough.

*~*

_There’s whimpering. The air is filled with weeping, whispering, eleven different renditions of terror._

_Only Mycroft is silent, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s._

_“The letter N,” Sherlock says, loud and certain._

_Moran applauds, his mask-face breaking into a warm, beaming smile._

_“Congratulations, Mr Holmes. You’ve passed.”_

_Sherlock doesn’t respond. Something is still not right. The numbers of this scenario do not add up._

_“I wanted to make sure that the man who bested James Moriarty really was as clever as his reputation suggested.”_

_Then one, two, three shots fire, and blood, and noise._

_“Mycroft,” he says, on his knees now. Hands red-slick. “Mycroft.”_

_He applies pressure. Not enough. Too many points of entry. He shudders, and the noise grows worse around him._

_“Mycroft.”_


	3. Chapter 3

John hates east London at the best of times.

The cab driver had favoured him with an odd look as he dropped him off outside the warehouse, which is deserted and looks impenetrable. 

“Wait here for me, okay? As long as it takes, put it on the meter.” 

And now he’s stumbling around half-blind trying to find anything that looks like an entrance, and the crime scene tape rears up out of the darkness just as he’s starting to feel desperate, guiding him.

He’d looked properly at his phone in the cab, the missed call list. Five from Sherlock, just after 2am. Two from Lestrade, an hour later. Then nothing, for hours. At 5.37am, 5.38am, 5.40am, 5.45am, Lestrade called again. There is another single missed call from Sherlock, at 4.57am.

Mycroft’s time of death was estimated at 4.50am. It’s that single call that haunts John the most. 

It’s even darker inside, and he walks gingerly through what looks like a vast, almost empty storage locker. He’s half-afraid of disturbing evidence although he knows the scene has already been combed.

There’s a bloodstain some five feet to the right of him, caught ominously in a narrow beam of moonlight, and he’s starting to see now how the scene looked. The far wall, twelve bundles of rope lined up to represent where each hostage had stood, jagged red stains marking out Mycroft’s position, the farthest on the right.

“Sherlock?” he says loudly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to find him. “Sherlock?”

He squints into the darkness, searching for corners, crannies, but now his eyes are adjusting he realises this is one large, smooth-edged space, and there is nowhere. Sherlock isn’t here.

God, he isn’t here.

Despair threatens to overcome him for a second. He keeps walking, heading for the opposite side of the room where there’s a raised platform and a smaller doorway, with a horizontal metal bar. An exit.

He pushes through and emerges back into the night air, now in what looks like a disused car park.

And sees him from a distance, sitting on a packing crate with his face in shadow. 

“Sherlock!” he shouts, sprinting flat out. “Sherlock!”

He doesn’t look up, even when John reaches him and sinks down onto his knees, to eye level. 

“Sherlock.”

His eyes are glassy, fixed on mid-distance.

“God,” John murmurs, taking in the blood on his shirt, splashes reaching up his neck. Mycroft’s blood. 

He takes hold of Sherlock’s hands and he blinks, looking genuinely surprised. 

“John.”

“Hey.”

“You’re here.”

“Yeah, of course I’m here. I’m here.” He wants to keep repeating it, in penance for the absence he can never take back. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Bristol, I assume?”

“What? Yeah. That’s… yeah.”

“You’d want to see Harry, of course. The case reminded you of her, and you haven’t been in contact for just under seven months. Did you meet?”

Sherlock’s speaking very quietly, very slowly, a voice that isn’t his. 

“Um, no. I don’t even have her address. I just…it was pointless.”

Silence, for a long time. He can’t think what else to say, but keeps holding Sherlock’s hands, and after a while Sherlock’s lips begin moving, his eyes unfocused again.

“What?”

“If you throw me from the window, I will leave a grieving wife. Bring me back, but in the door, and you’ll see someone giving life.”

Nonplussed, John’s about to ask how long it’s been since he slept, but something Lestrade said is echoing in his head.

“That’s the riddle, yeah?” he asks gently. “The last riddle Moran gave you? Probably won’t come as a huge surprise to you that I’m stumped.”

“It was too simple,” Sherlock hisses, vicious suddenly, and tears his hands away from John’s. “So obvious, I should have… yes. Window, widow, door, donor, too simple, too neat, not the kind of note you end on. Not the kind of note he would end on.”

“I’m lost.”

“The letter N, John, it’s the letter N, forming the word ‘widow’ in the first instance and the word ‘donor’ in the second. Nursery stuff. I should have known instantly. Idiotic, even to go along with him, if I’d just…”

Sherlock trails off, eyes wild now.

“Sherlock, there’s nothing you could have done. Christ, you solved all twelve riddles in as many minutes, there was literally no more you could possibly have done.”

“Of course there was.”

“Listen. I know I wasn’t there. But from what Lestrade told me, and from what we know about Moran… this was only ever going to end one way. He was always going to kill Mycroft, from the moment he had him.”

He winces at his own words; they come out harsher than he intends but he has to get this through to Sherlock, has to pull him out of this particular self-destructive thought spiral. 

“Nonsensical. The entire thing, there was no _point_ , no logic, just the setup alone. But there had to be a way, something…” Sherlock trails off again, head bowed to his chest.

“This isn’t some… test that you failed, or a game you lost. Moran was never playing by any rules. This is not your fault.”

Silence, now.

“Sherlock.”

Nothing. 

John waits, watching the knots of Sherlock’s hunched form tighten and wonders again, more seriously, how long he has been awake for.

On impulse he reaches to touch his head, fingers easing through matted curls and Sherlock makes a low, wailing keen then, hands fisted as he trembles with pent-up feeling.

“I should have _known_ ,” he gets out, and his voice is high and thick with tears.

“No,” John whispers, and puts his arms around him, holding him in. He is stiff still, a twisted-up bundle of raw nerves.

“I’m here,” he says again, he can’t say it enough now, “I’m here,” and with that Sherlock is clutching him, silent and convulsing, tears leaking against his neck.

He has never seen him like this, will never admit how much it frightens him. Sherlock sobs his name just once, _John_ muffled into his skin, and he aches.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasps out, and rubs circles against Sherlock’s back after that because he doesn’t trust himself to speak again.

Sherlock’s hands are inside his jacket, braced hard against his shoulder blades, and though his crying abates quickly (too quickly) John can still feel him trembling, hard.

From the corner of his eye, he can just see the blood still on Sherlock’s neck, and God they need to get out of here. 

“Come on,” he says, tugging at his lapels. “Let’s go home, okay? Let’s go.”

Sherlock’s unsettlingly pliant now, lets John pull him up and guide him back towards the door with a hand on his lower back.

He pauses abruptly as they near the wall, bloodstains still half-illuminated in moonlight, and John tightens his arm and murmurs “come on,” again, just desperate to get him out.

The cab, thank God, is still waiting.

Sherlock gazes fixedly out of the window all the way home, and John watches streetlights pass by over his shoulder and tries hard not to think.


End file.
